A Soulmate for Christmas
by spearmintgreen
Summary: Tom discovers that Christmas isn't as awful as he thought. It's worse. Silly Tomione Christmas/soulmate AU. OOCish.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is for Sasha, who is the best friend I could ever ask for. I don't deserve you and I'm just so glad you're in my life. I love you so much! Merry Christmas!**

* * *

The wind is harsh and cold at Hermione's back, whipping her already bushy hair into a messy brown cloud around her head. She pushes a hand through it impatiently. Her pace quickens as she attempts to stay ahead of her pursuers. Well-meaning though they are, she simply isn't in the mood, and they won't fucking leave her alone.

Far too close, she can hear their voices just behind her. She breaks into a full sprint. Several students give her odd glances as she passes, which is probably due to the fact that she's running at top speed away from her friends whilst carrying a rather precariously balanced stack of books.

She thinks about just how inconvenient it is that her wand is currently inaccessible to her due to the load in her arms. She ducks as quickly as she can into the castle, taking the most obscure route as possible to the Room of Requirement. She paces in front of where the door should be three times thinking, _"Hide me."_ Not soon enough, door appears and she struggles to get it open around the books before she slips inside. Just then she spots Ginny's tell-tale shoes coming around the corner.

The door shuts with a bang and she is momentarily stunned by the force of it. Slowly, she turns and surveys her surroundings. The room she has landed herself in is enormous, with teetering piles of every kind of knick-knack imaginable, both Muggle and Magical, stacked in mountains as far as she can see. Several jagged paths cut through the chaos, and, knowing she has time to kill, she chooses one at random.

Walking along, she takes note of the abundance of books; many, she's never heard of, which is a shock in itself, and a few that she recognizes to be banned. She has to stop herself from taking any of them. There's a reason these things are in here.

Suddenly, something cries out, startling her so badly that she flies backwards, dropping the stack of books she'd been holding this whole time. _Shit._ Her heart races and she is momentarily distracted from picking up the books strewn around her, just long enough that she doesn't notice it when a book that was not previously there makes it into the pile too.

Exasperatedly, she sets the reformed pile on the floor in front of her and takes out her wand. _"Wingardium leviosa,"_ she mutters. The books gracefully float in front of her as she stands and begins the trek back to the door. An intense feeling of being watched washes over her, and she jogs the rest of the way. She turns around one last time as she reaches for the rusted metal handle of the door, and a chill runs up her spine despite the pleasant temperature the Room has provided for her.

She pokes her head out the door, checking both ways for her friends. Although they are nowhere to be seen, she doubts they'd give up this easily, and she'll have to deal with them later. As it is, she levitates the books out in front of her and shuts the door gratefully.

The library is probably still open, and she grins in delight. The eerie feeling from the Room of Requirement dissipates as she makes her way to her favorite place in Hogwarts, but never completely leaves the back of her mind.

* * *

He has always hated Christmas. For all his genius, he is still unsure of whether or not it's the nearness the holiday has to his birthday or merely the fact that everyone else seems to be so utterly _happy_ throughout the whole damn season that makes him despise it so much. Whatever the real reason is, he's had a nearly permanent scowl on his normally handsome face since the first decorations started going up (despite his many, albeit subtle, protests) at the beginning of November.

On more than one occasion, he's had to resist the painfully strong urge to hex the few people who've wished him a merry Christmas. Rather, he plasters a fake smile on his face and wishes them a merry Christmas as well, all the while imagining tearing them apart limb from limb. Now, on Christmas eve, the well-wishers had gotten even more unbearable.

The only place that doesn't make him want to _Avada Kedavra_ the entire student population is the library. It is the sole location that isn't decorated in any way, and the quiet is a welcome change from the increasingly ridiculous carols that both the Mudbloods _and_ Purebloods sing around the halls. Most years, there wouldn't be so many still at Hogwarts over Christmas break, but with both the Muggle war and the magical war going on simultaneously, there were only a handful that _had_ chosen to go home.

He has already finished all the assignments he's been given to do over break, of course. In fact, he's finished more than half of them the day they'd been given to him. They'd been disappointingly easy. Not that he'd ever let the professors know that their so-called "Advanced Level" work took him less than half an hour per subject to complete the assigned papers.

The library is just a little too warm, as usual, and the old, dusty smell of books floods his nostrils. Madam Pince waves at him cheerfully, and he continues to his favorite spot. It's as far back as one can go before they reach the restricted section, and is far away from prying eyes.

He sinks into the plush black armchair he'd charmed to become invisible when anyone but him tried to sit in it. Not the best spell, but it worked, and he couldn't go placing more complicated blood charms on it without anyone being able to trace it back to him.

Taking out a book to read, he wills himself to focus on what it's saying.

* * *

She has made a kind of home out of the library with its cozy atmosphere and the small collection of pillows she's begun to accumulate in her special spot. Everything is just as she likes it, with neat stacks of books surrounding the wooden table and its single chair. It's the one place she feels more comfortable than the Common Room.

After making her way to the library, she'd managed to finish two of the books she'd brought with her before passing out. The stress of her situation was starting to get to her and she couldn't help but drift off.

It wasn't so much the fact that Ron was dating Lavender that bothered her, although that was part of it, the thing that made her most upset was the fact that he had brushed her aside seemingly so easily. This wasn't the first time either. They had had fights in the past that had ended in ignoring each other, but this was different. This fucking stung. Perhaps it was the nature of it being a matter of love and not just a trivial quarrel between friends.

Jerking awake, Hermione groggily rubs her eyes and stifles a yawn. A small puddle of drool has pooled on her current book and, horrified, she hastily wipes it off as best she can. Sunlight still streams through the window, so it can't be too late yet. She waves her wand and the time appears in glowing number in the air. 5:26. There's time for one more book, at least.

Pulling the next one from the top of the pile, she stares at it for a moment. It is obviously very old, with a greasy film coating the fraying grey cover. Inlaid silver letters spell out "Magick of Souls" in scrolling cursive. She doesn't remember picking up this book. It dawns on her that she might have taken it by mistake, but how? It only takes her about a minute before she makes the connection to the Room of Requirement.

No.

She can't read this.

She mustn't.

Any book found in there is inherently a bad idea to read.

She doesn't know much about soul magic, though.

Reading only one chapter couldn't possibly hurt. She can always stop if she needs to.

Her thirst for knowledge overcomes her misgivings, and after the seven analytical spells she casts on it to check for curses and hexes come up clean, she begins to read.

The beginning chapter is on soulmates. An involuntary snort escapes Hermione's lips. She doesn't believe in soulmates. She believes in love, and that two people can overcome obstacles and differences to be together, but that two people would be made for each other – a perfect match – seems too far-fetched. No two people fit together perfectly. There will always be something about one that the other finds annoying or disagreeable.

The further she reads, the more incredulous she grows, until eventually, with a scowl on her face, she shuts the book with a snap. The result is instantaneous. The book glows a startling green and shakes violently in her grasp. She tries to let go, but it is glued to her hand. A gasp escapes her lips, and she fumbles for her wand one-handedly. Strands of magic reach out from the book, wrapping around the wrist of the hand holding it like a vice. Having found her wand, she struggles to identify the curse that continues to dig into her skin, burrowing its way into her very bones. It pumps through her veins, courses through her body, swallows her whole.

In a panic she sends a severing curse at the strand of magic connecting her wrist to the book. Sparks erupt and a dome of swirling green light encloses her before she feels the familiar feeling of apparition, multiplied by a thousand.

* * *

There is a loud crack, and suddenly there is a girl standing in front of him. She stumbles forward and promptly throws up at his feet. He is up in an instant, wand drawn and pointing at her. She looks awful, her baggy clothes hang off her body in a way that suggests she isn't getting the nutrition she needs and the dark circles under her eyes tell a tale of their own. There is something off about her distinctly Gryffindor uniform, but he can't quite put his finger on it, it's not like he pays any particular attention to girls' uniforms. The absolute biggest hair he has ever seen is frizzy and tangled, accentuating her sickly complexion. Clearly, this girl has been through hell.

Making a split second decision, he stows his wand back in his pocket and offers her his arm. "Are you quite alright, Miss…?"

She eyes him shrewdly for a moment, and chooses to ignore his question, responding instead with a query of her own. "Who are you?" Her eyes, which are a soft brown, he notices, seem far too calculating for a girl who just threw up at his feet. Glancing around near her feet, she appears as though she's looking for something. When she can't find it, she glances at him again, this time her eyes fixating on his Slytherin tie with contempt.

He does find it strange that he doesn't recognize her, but then again, she is a Gryffindor, and he hardly goes out of his way to associate with Gryffindors. He smiles charmingly, "I'm Tom Riddle, Slytherin prefect. I can take you to the Infirmary."

If she had regained any color in the moments since throwing up it is lost again at those words. "Fuck," she spits. The terror and panic on her face would normally amuse him, but now he is merely confused. Her breaths come rapid and shallow. She takes several steps back, away from him, and instinctually he takes several forward to close the gap. She is muttering at a fast pace under her breath, her eyes flickering in every direction, still calculating, calculating.

"Excuse me?" He is taken aback by her reaction. Gryffindors and Slytherins aren't known for getting along, but this seems a bit extreme.

"I-I have to go." She turns away and makes as though to run away from him.

In the years that follow, he will forever wonder why he didn't just let her go. He will wonder what on earth possessed him to reach out his hand, made him grab her by her arm. He doesn't believe in fate or destiny or rubbish like that, he believes in choices, and being the master of one's own life. So maybe that makes it his own fault, but whatever it is, in that moment he extends his arm and grabs her.

The moment he touches her, she lights up like the Christmas trees he so hates. A feeling like being pricked with red hot needles spreads from his fingers, through his arm and down to his heart. A faint red glow shines out from where his heart is.

As soon as the shock wears off he is in her face, shouting, "What the hell was that? What just happened?" He shakes her with the same arm he used to grab her originally, and when he tries to let go so he can get out his wand, he finds that his hand won't let go. "What did you do to me?" he hisses furiously. He pulls on his hand as hard as he can, but it doesn't budge. His hand is attached to her skin through the material of her jumper.

For a moment she seems stunned, but then she seems to regain herself and her features become stony. "Me? What I did you?" a cold laugh that borders on hysteria cuts its way out her throat. "I didn't do anything to you, you're the one who deci-"

"If you hadn't tried to-"

"-go after me. If you had just-"

"-from me then I wouldn't have had to-"

"No! You listen to me!" She jabs a finger at him with each word. "I have no idea how I got here, much less how I got stuck with you, literally as well as figuratively, apparently, and I'd much rather find a way to get unstuck than to stand here arguing!" A muscle twitches in his jaw.

There is an uncomfortable silence. Finally, he gives a curt nod.

* * *

He is giving her an odd look, and she self-consciously brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. His hand is uncomfortably warm on her arm, just above her elbow, and she has to put effort into not twitching at the thought. This is the future Lord Voldemort. She is physically attached to the future Lord Voldemort.

He isn't what she expected he might be like. Despite the fact that he yelled at her within a few minutes of their meeting, his overall disposition since then has not been unpleasant, if more quiet than she is used to from other boys. Of course, she can't say for certain that he isn't planning on taking her somewhere and torturing her until he finds a way to dislodge his hand.

That stupid, fucking book. She should have just left it well enough alone. The ramifications of her actions are still unclear. Is she really fifty years in the past, attached to the boy who will become the murderous tyrant of her time? It seems too strange to be real. Yet, how else can she explain the boy in front of her? How else can she explain the firm pressure of his hand on her arm?

She pinches herself. Once. Twice. Three times. It hurts every time but changes nothing. When she blinks her eyes, the same dark-haired menace stands in front of her, deep in thought.

"We've been standing here for ten minutes doing absolutely nothing useful. Are we going to get ourselves out of this predicament or do you plan on being stuck to me forever?" he asks it with distaste, like she is some kind of insect and the sooner he's away from her, the better. The question comes out of the blue, and she is startled out of her thoughts.

"Right, sorry." She's not about to tell the future Lord Voldemort about a book regarding soul magic. "We could go to Professor Dumbledore," she points out.

If he feels any emotion other than indifference, he masks it well. "Typical Gryffindor, always going to Professor Dumbledore for sympathy." There is no malice in the words themselves, but his eyes, which are a coppery brown, flash distinctly red. They lock onto her face for a heartbeat. He cocks his head to the side, scrutinizing her. "I will not go to Dumbledore," she opens her mouth to protest, but he continues, "and, for some reason, I get the impression that you'd rather not be seen by anyone, am I correct?" That's the first rule of time-travel, if that is indeed what has happened, but she's not going to say that.

She completely ignores his last question. "Fine, what would you suggest?"

"I'll figure it out." She raises an eyebrow. "We are in the library and I'd bet there's more than a few books that can show me how to fix this." He is already eyeing the shelves as though the answers he seeks will simply leap from them all at once.

He abruptly begins walking, tugging her along with him. She swallows nervously. Never has a boy made her feel so…exposed. Ron simply made her feel irate and frustrated, but he, Tom Riddle, makes her feel completely panic-ridden. It is as though he can see into her innermost thoughts. She attributes this to the fact that he simply sets her on edge due to what he will become, and tries to simply grit her teeth and ignore the very fast beating of her pulse.

Not looking at her, he questions, "Why do I make you so nervous?" It sounds genuinely curious, but she can't take anything he says or does at face value. "I mean, I know I am attractive," she scoffs, "and you're hardly the first girl to act strangely around me, but you seem scared. Why is that?" He is still walking ahead of her, so she can't see his expression.

"Does it matter?" is her biting reply. She can't help but be annoyed. This is hardly the way she wanted to spend her evening, and the more curious he grows, the more on edge she feels.

His graceful movements come to a jerking halt and she nearly stumbles into his back, catching herself on a book shelf at the last second. She is still regaining her balance when he mutters, "Perhaps not." He turns toward her. A dark smile slowly curves his lips into sharp points. "But I'm curious."

"I suppose you'll just have to be curious forever, then." Deep down, she knows it's probably not a good idea to provoke him, but she's tired, and just wants to get back to where she's supposed to be. Her bed in Gryffindor Tower in her own time calls to her, where she's at least relatively safe, and, most importantly, not attached to Tom Riddle.

"You're certainly defensive." His eyes flash red again, and the dark smile only grows wider.

"You're certainly nosy," she shoots back. His wand is at her throat before she can blink. She didn't even see him pull it out.

"Now," the wand digs in, "I'd like some answers. You appear in the library in front of me with a crack and are sick at my feet – the obvious answer is apparition, but apparition isn't possible on Hogwarts grounds. So how did you get here?" he asks it, almost as if to himself. "Next, upon hearing my name you immediately try to run away from me. Strange, but not entirely inexplicable due to the flighty nature of females." That's where she draws the line.

"Stop, just stop. I'll tell you, alright? Just stop insulting women who neither asked for your opinion nor deserved such critical judgment from someone that knows nothing about them." She takes a deep breath that resounds in her chest. "I came here by a book. I had decided that I didn't want to read any more of it and so I closed it, and when I did I was here."

He looks unimpressed at her revelation. "A book you say? What was this book about? You weren't tampering with Dark magic were you? That'd be awfully dangerous," it is condescending, and she feels insulted.

"I can take care of myself perfectly well thank you very much!" Her face flames and she just knows she's turning red.

"Apparently not if you accidentally managed to apparate within Hogwarts and then get yourself physically attached to the nearest person." He thinks she is incompetent, then. As if coming to a realization, he says slowly, "You know, I could just do this the easy way." Her eyes widen. That can't be anything good for her.

"Let's not be hasty, we can-"

Wand now aiming at the point of connection between his hand and her arm, he shouts, "Lacero!" She is surprised the spell is verbal, but only for a moment before a searing pain bites into her skin. It feels like her arm has been lit on fire. Refraining herself from crying out, she chances a glance at the wound. It is an incision that traces the outline of his hand on her arm. Blood soaks through the coarse material of her jumper in seconds.

He grins wickedly and she knows what he is going to do a moment too late. Forcefully, he rips his hand away. What he doesn't expect, however, is for his hand to remain just as stuck as before. She flies toward him, throwing them both off balance, and with a mutually muttered "Shit" they fall to the ground in a heap.

She lands on top of him, so he takes the brunt of the impact, and she makes use of his distraction to get out her own wand. She shoots a nonverbal Blinding Hex at him, but is blocked by his, also silent, shield. Her hex dissipates against the thick yellow wall that somehow fits between their still intertwined bodies.

They lock eyes. "Did you really think you could hex me so easily?" Truthfully, she did, and she is miffed that even in his distraction he was still able to conjure a descent shield. Pushing herself off him with one hand, she attempts to roll to a safe distance, but finds that, like his hand that is still on her arm, her own hand won't move from where it rests on his chest. His right hand on her left arm, and her left hand on his chest, in hindsight it is a hilarious thought. At that moment however, it was far from amusing.

"Damn it!" he seems to immediately know what she is referring to.

"Stupid girl! Look at what you've done!" Blaming her again, not that she's surprised. They sit up at the same time and glare at each other.

"It's not as if I meant to do it! In fact, I was trying to get away from you, you evil git!" She picks up her wand, which had fallen in her shock at his shield, and starts to raise it. His own is up and pointing between her eyes before she can even registered that he'd managed to hold on to it.

* * *

"Don't try it." He is smug, because he's already proven that he's the better of the two magically. Not that he's surprised. In his honest estimation the only person that could best him in a duel would be Dumbledore. That was something he was still working on fixing.

She merely glares at him, and turns her wand to where her arm is still bleeding, muttering a nonverbal healing spell. He raises an eyebrow and makes a motion for her to drop her wand. She clutches it tighter and he can feel a muscle in his neck twitch in annoyance.

"Drop your wand."

"Or what? You'll stun me? Surely you must know Muldridge's Third Law of Physically Connected Objects? We're physically connected, if you stun me you'll also be stunning yourself." She sounds triumphant, as though knowing one law means she has won something.

He grinds his teeth together. He can't torture her, they are still in the library after all, and they still have to find a way to get unattached as quickly as possible. He keeps his wand pointing between her eyes. "What did you say that book was about?" He considers Legilimizing her, but again, they are in the library, and despite its reputation for being deserted there is always the possibility of a Ravenclaw or even the librarian stumbling on them by chance.

"Relationship magic." Obviously a lie, but he doesn't press it. She seems to think for a moment. "I had just finished the chapter on soulmates, and, like I said, when I closed the book it took me here." That, however, seems to be the truth, and he groans internally.

"Are you trying to imply that we are soulmates? That the book brought you here because you're my soulmate?" Her eyes are suddenly huge, staring at him in what can only be described as horror. Clearly, that hadn't been something she'd even considered. Her skin has a greenish tinge, and even though he feels the same way about _her_ being his potential soulmate, he cannot help but feel mildly insulted by her reaction. "Is it possible that the book had nothing to do with you coming here?" He tries not to sound too hopeful.

"The magic came out of the book, so it was definitely the book that sent me here. As far as being physically attached goes, I have absolutely no idea why that is. The book didn't mention anything of the sort." She runs a hand through her hair distractedly. "There must have been other cases of this happening, though. We can hardly be the first, right? And if we're not the first then we just have to find mention of the other cases and see what they did to get free!" He can see in her eyes that she doesn't actually believe they will find anything, but he has to believe that they will, and her suggestion of looking for previous cases sounds far more appealing than his previous plan to find a potion made specifically for separating Siamese twins.

He says nothing, but slowly lowers his wand. She looks surprised, like he wasn't going to actually listen to what she had to say. "Accio soulmate books." Ten books immediately speed towards him, stopping a few feet away and lowering elegantly onto a nearby table. An eleventh book makes its appearance a moment later, almost nailing Hermione in the back of the head as it struggles to catch up to the others. Tom makes what would normally be a mocking bow that comes across as distinctly more awkward due to the fact that they are still quite entangled, and motions for her to go sit at the table with the books.

They make their way over to the table, Hermione having to walk backwards because Tom refused to do so. Upon reaching the table, they look at each other uncomfortably for a long moment. There are two chairs, and he tries to think of a way for them each to sit on a chair without being horribly straining on their arms. His face feels just a little bit warmer than it should when he realizes she will have to sit on his lap thanks to the placement of their arms. She, too, seems to have come to this conclusion, because she scowls at the chairs in an accusatory manner.

Carefully, he sits down and she, with her nose turned up and face away, sits on the very edge of his knees. He reaches for a book and she grabs one, too. He tries to open it with one hand, and finds it considerably more difficult than he assumed it would be. The girl, whom he still doesn't know the name of, is having the same problem. She fumbles with the book one handedly, going so far as to hold it in one hand and push the cover up with her nose. He snorts, and then immediately regrets it because she turns to look at him then, her eyes very close to his own.

Her eyes trail down to his book which is in his hand uselessly, still unopened. She smirks at him. "Need help?" Once again he considers hexing her, but the costs still far outweigh the benefits, and so he settles for pinching her arm. She flinches and goes back to her own book, which she has successfully opened and is managing to read with few problems.

It takes him two more tries to get the book open, and another three to get the hang of flipping pages, which puts him in an even worse mood, because the girl got it on practically her first try. She isn't that bad, actually, once she shut up, but he'd never tell her that.

Soulmates. What utter drivel. There was no such thing. The books he'd found were boring, hardly more than vague referencing of soulmates to be found. He had found quite a few ancient magical marriage and binding ceremonies that looked intriguing, especially the one that could bind one person's magic to another, but that was a study for a different time.

By the time they'd each made it through four books, her finishing barely two minutes before him, it was at least curfew, which meant he'd have his rounds to do. She'd just have to come with him and hope he didn't find any students out of bed. He starts to stand, but stops mid motion upon seeing her sleeping, precariously teetering back and forth on her spot on his knees. He stares. He stares for longer than is probably normal. She looks peaceful. While she was awake he hadn't noticed how tense she seemed, but now, sleeping soundly, the difference in her countenance is remarkable.

His first thought is to just let her sleep. Then, disgust at even considering it. His prefect duties are much more important than this strange girl. He likely would have debated with himself for much longer, but, luckily, the decision was made for him. The strange green glow that Hermione had seen come out of the book engulfs him, seemingly bursting out of Hermione and into Tom. He fights it, and is able to cover both himself and Hermione with an Invisibility Charm before it causes him to fall asleep, collapsing the short distance back into the chair.

* * *

The first thing she notices is that she seems to be semi-upright. The next thing is that her pillow smells much nicer and more masculine than she remembers it having in the past. After that she groggily blinks her eyes open and finds herself staring at a clearly Slytherin collar. She is confused she looks up the rest of the way to find herself staring at a still dozing boy. She blinks. Blinks again.

Dimly, she thinks it odd that neither the caretaker nor a prefect found her and whoever her pillow is at some point in the night. She doesn't dwell on it long, however, as her ever-so-comfortable pillow stirs slightly, revealing more of his face to her.

Memories come back all at once, in a garbled, inarticulate clutter, and she shrieks and topples backwards off his lap, which she has managed to snuggle into during the night, and she is still trying to come to terms with the fact that she just slept on Tom-fucking-Riddle's lap when the weight of her falling pulls him off the chair and into a heap almost on top of her.

He startles awake. His eyes are comically wide and staring at her in a mixture of confusion and anger. The yew wand she has come to hate so well is out, but not pointing at anything in particular. His keen eyes scan their surroundings, and finding no threats, turn back to her darkly. "What happened?" His voice is husky from sleep, and her breath hitches.

"I, um, I fell." She can feel her cheeks turn red and she mentally berates them. Not daring to look at him, she starts to get up, using the hand that is still attached to his chest to push him away from her. She is able to stand halfway, until her hand stops her from stretching any farther. He takes his time, straightening slowly to tower over her.

"We should finish the last book," he says, making a vague gesture towards it.

"Right. Yes, of course." She brushes imaginary dust off her robes.

They go back to their previous position of him sitting on the chair and her balanced at the edge of his knees. He grunts, dissatisfied, and pulls her forward so she's more comfortably seated on his thighs. She says nothing, but makes no move to go back.

At first, he attempts to read the book on his own, but she insists on reading it with him, and he doesn't argue, merely giving her a quiet warning about keeping up. Each holds a cover of the book, and she is in charge of turning pages. They form a kind of rhythm with him giving her a miniscule nod every time he's ready for her to turn the page, and her telling him she's already done and to hurry up by having the next page ready between her thumb and forefinger.

There isn't a table of contents, so they have to read the whole thing. After what feels like an eternity, they finally come across a chapter that is called 'Soulmates: The Facts.' Hermione gasps when she sees it, not realizing this draws Tom's eyes to her face. She is still enamored with her discovery, oblivious to his stare and the way it tracks all the lines and edges of her eyes, nose, and mouth. It is likely a good thing she misses the way his lips lift into something suspiciously similar to a smile, followed by a look of intense disgust and fear.

"Look at this, Riddle! I think we found it!" She points excitedly at a passage detailing about how soulmates have been known to be transported to each other after encountering certain forms of soul magic.

She reads on enthusiastically, because this must have the answer. Towards the end of the section, there is a personal account of such an occurrence by one who had been transported to their soulmate. However, that was where the similarities ended. The woman, someone called Maurice Pucey, detailed that upon finding herself in a strange environment with a man she did not recognize, and who seemed just as shocked as she was at her sudden appearance there, she immediately apparated away. However, she went on to say that she would still have dreams about him occasionally, and now regretted leaving so hastily, as she'd never seen him again.

Hermione bites her lower lip until she tastes blood. Tom's hand on her arm becomes painful and she restrains herself from throwing the book across the room. He has finished, too, apparently, because he lets out his breath in an irate hiss that fans her cheek. She turns the page.

The next section is entirely on theory. The first thing to catch her eye is that the author postulates that, if a certain person did not have a soulmate in their own time, then they would be transported to the time of their soulmate. She furrows her brow. The author then suggests that should this ever happen, the results would be entirely unpredictable, especially if the person in question was to travel to the past. With the time-turner, nothing is really changed, but with soulmates, there's no telling when your soulmate is from, and if they're farther than maybe 5 years in the past, then it would be impossible to guess the results, as no one had ever gone back more than a week and lived.

She can feel her fingers shake as she moves to turn the page. Tom grunts and so she pauses, waiting for his affirmatory nod. The next, and final section of the chapter is on the physical connections of soulmates.

' _While soulmates have a definite mental, and of course, soul, bond, there have been a few rare cases of soul mates also being bonded physically. No one knows what causes these particular soulmates to be different from others, though it has been speculated that it is due to the strength of the bonds the soulmates have._

 _In the case of Mary and William Bradshire, the most recent and most thoroughly documented instance of this occurrence, when they first met (NOTE: they met under normal circumstances and were not magically transported to each other), upon taking Mary's hand in greeting, William found he could not remove it. She, of course, did what any respectable woman would, and slapped him. She too, though, found that once her hand was on his face she could not move it._

 _Over the course of several days of having to work around the inconvenience of being quite literally attached to someone, they eventually started to genuinely like each other. Their families, of course, were mollified. William and Mary became a well-known scandal in their hometown, despite their best efforts to remain dignified and respectable throughout the ordeal._

 _William agreed to be interviewed for the writing of this book, and he referred to that time as both the best and worst of his life. "I didn't like her at first. Not at all. She was a right pain in the ass, to be frank. I had a job, and so did she, and we worked it out so that we'd go to my job one day and hers the following day. Our bosses weren't pleased, but they understood that it wasn't our fault and agreed to let us continue working so long as we agreed to try to look for a fix. That seemed fair."_

 _Another curious part of their predicament was that whatever Mary felt affected William, and vice versa. William mentioned that whenever Mary felt particularly happy or sad or any strong emotion, he'd feel it too. He also laughingly recalled that, once, Mary had been unable to fall asleep, and even though he was particularly exhausted that day, he was unable to fall asleep._

 _Upon asking William how he and Mary finally did manage to physically unattach themselves, William's eyes got a definite twinkle. He says on the matter, "We simply did as love told us to." When asked to elaborate, he refused, and ended the interview. '_

Hermione glares balefully at the words. Lots of help, that man. ' "We simply did as love told us to,"' indeed. That could mean any number of things, each more unpleasant to imagine than the last.

"What the actual FUCK?" It is the first time she has heard him swear. His eyes are blood red, scalding her very soul. Wand clutched tightly, his knuckles turn a pasty shade of white. His breaths come in short bursts, faster, faster, his chest heaving. "What is this shit you've gotten us into? How the hell are we supposed to know whatever the fuck love wants us to do? What love wants us to do? That's fucking hilarious." Now that he's started swearing, it seems a dam has been unleashed.

"Maybe it-"

"See! You don't fucking know! There is no way to know!" They are nearly nose to nose, and she can clearly see all the muscles in his face. He is tense, ready to snap, a dark thundercloud before the storm begins.

"We'll figure it out! If those people could do it then so can we! Now, what's the first thing that you think of when you think of love?" She can't help but be curious as to the future dark lord's opinion on love.

"I- what?" His brows crease. Then, after a moment, his expression goes blank. "I don't believe in love at all. How could it possibly exist? Other people talk about it as though it's something good and real, but I've never experienced it, and, in the few cases of so-called love that I've observed, it's only ended up a detriment to the overall potential of all parties involved."

It's not the outright hatred that she expected, but it is still sad. "So you're obviously going to be of no help in figuring this out, then." She shakes her head. He opens his mouth to protest but she cuts him off, "The things I think of when I think of love are family, hugging, surprising people with nice things, friends, and putting someone else first rather than yourself." His lips curl into a sneer.

"And how is any of that going to help us? We aren't family, I won't risk hugging you and you getting stuck to my chest," he shivers in apparent disgust, "I highly doubt surprising you with something nice is the answer, we aren't friends either, and I think, in the end, we're each putting ourselves first in trying to get out of this."

"Stop making this so difficult. I don't know, what are some things couples do when they're in love?" She nearly bursts out laughing at his expression. He looks so completely confused and yet still irritated. "I don't have the most experience with this, and I've never truly been in love, but holding hands is obvious, though that can be ruled out due to the account in the book." She is embarrassed by what she is about to say, and she lets it out in a rush, "Thereisofcoursetheageoldtraditionofkissingandsleepingtogether."

"Come again?"

"I said,'kissing and sleeping together,'" she spits.

* * *

He lets out a frustrated sound. "We've already slept together, and before you protest, I know that's not what you meant." He now really regrets not just trying the Siamese twin potion, though now that it's clear their affliction is being soulmates he doubts it would've worked anyway. "I will sleep with you, in an attempt to get us unattached, of course, on one condition." The sleeping together bit is no issue for him, he has no moral qualms with it and has heard enough on the subject from overhearing his Knights to have at least a vague sense of what he's doing.

Her face scrunches. Then, warily, "And that is?"

"I want to know your name and where you were before you were transported here." He notes how wide her eyes go and the way she immediately tries to put space between them by once again scooting to the edge of his knees, stopped from further retreat by her own arm. He's struck gold.

"No. I can't tell you that." Her voice shakes, and her eyes are frightened, looking everywhere but at him. "I mean, I really don't think the solution is to sleep together anyway."

"So what does that leave us with?" Tom growls. "This predicament has gone on long enough. It is completely unacceptable. This is fucking Christmas for fuck's sake."

"It's Christmas?" the surprise in her voice sounds genuine.

"What of it?"

"I just didn't know, is all," she is still defensive, tense and ready to run, not that she could.

It hurts him on more than one level, but he suggests it, "We could go to Dumbledore." Her face instantly brightens, the first hints of a smile touching the corners of her mouth and eyes. He hopes his own countenance suggests how much he loathes the idea. It is the last resort.

"Yes, that sounds good. He'll know what to do. That was what I suggested in the first place." She slides the rest of the way off his lap, standing as far to the side as possible to let him get up. Upon standing, he looks down at her. She actually smiles at him, and he feels part of himself, a part he didn't even know he had, want to smile back. He represses it.

They stand there staring at each other for a full minute, him frowning, and her with a smile that slowly dies as the minute goes on. "Come on," he manages as last.

As they walk, awkwardly and at a slight angle, he mutters the same Invisibility Charm that he used the night previously and covers them both. The main benefit to this particular charm is that it allows one to still see themselves, but still remain totally undetected by others. The last thing they need is to be spotted by the school gossips. Not that any of them would be in the library on Christmas, but it's always best to be careful.

They manage to make it all the way to the doors of the library without being spotted, and, in what they will both look back on with no small degree of annoyance, cross the threshold of the doors without first checking for malignant spells or curses.

The instant their feet cross the line between the library and the hall they feel themselves unable to take another step forward. Frantic, they try to go back into the library, but they can't go back either, and are stuck in the doorway. Tom takes out his wand, determined to get out, one way or another. He scans their surroundings, trying to figure out where the curse came from when he feels the girl tugging on his chest. He whirls to face her, ready to yell at her for interrupting when he realizes she's pointing at something above their heads. He follows her finger to the offending plant. Mistletoe.

They look at each other and then simultaneously begin throwing all manner of curses and hexes at it. Not so much as a leaf stirs; even when Tom lights the whole plant on fire it remains pristine. After each of them has thrown at least 25 spells at it, increasingly creative and dark with each attempt, and the plant remains and they are still stuck, they give up and Tom leans against a doorpost in defeat.

That mistletoe definitely wasn't there yesterday, he'd swear to it. "Look, I know there's got to be some kind of counter to it that will-"

"There is." She sounds absolutely exhausted. "If we just kiss this will all-"

"Absolutely not."

"Why not? It'll get this over with faster."

"What if we get stuck like that? There must be another-"

"Oh, you're just an arrogant coward who-"

He surges forward, slamming her back into the opposite doorpost. He towers over her, staring down into her wide eyes that are gold in the sliver of light that hits them. Leaning down so that his lips are a mere breath away from hers, he hisses, "Don't call me that ever again." With that, he closes the last of the distance between them.

She tastes of books and honey, and he can't get enough. She is kissing him back with equal fervor, biting at his bottom lip in a way that drives him mad. Her chest heaves against his, he feels her heartbeat like it is his own, pounding, pounding in his ears. His tongue slips into her mouth, exploring, delighting in her very being. He nips at her lips, and is rewarded with a deep moan that reverberates in his spine. They aren't close enough, the thin layer of clothes between their skin too much.

Neither notices when their hands are freed, too tangled with the other to care. Tom's hands go to her waist, pressing her closer as one of Hermione's hands reaches around his neck and the other knots itself in his dark hair.

Also unnoticed is the green glow that starts in Tom's chest and then spreads through his body to Hermione's. It engulfs them both, swirls around them, caresses them with its light. The light leaves Tom entirely, settling on Hermione with an air of finality.

They are still kissing when she begins to disappear. Tom opens his eyes when he can no longer feel her mouth on his, and he can't speak when he sees her in front of him, still there but ghostlike and fading fast. She reaches for his face but her fingers go right through him.

She starts to speak, but her voice is hard to hear. She is shouting now, but it's barely a whisper to his ears. All he can hear is, "My name is-"

Then she's gone.

* * *

fin


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: It's finally here! Yay! It's been a year but wow look at that the next (and final) part. This part is slightly more serious than the first part, but I think it should still be okay. It kinda got away from me in terms of length. WARNING: one part got more gory than I originally intended, so if you're not big on gore than skip from when Abraxas re-enters the Come and Go Room to the next separated section.**

 **EDIT: I had to delete and re-upload this chapter because when I first posted it it didn't keep the spacers and without them this story would be super confusing.**

* * *

Tom's eyes spend the majority of the day glued to the antique grandfather clock in the Slytherin Common Room. He'd already finished all of his homework, and reading just didn't appeal to him. He could almost hear it, the ticking inside the old clock. On and on it ticked, fading in and out of the background.

It is Christmas Eve.

This year, he'd been decidedly more appreciative of the upcoming holiday. He'd gone out of his way to be helpful decorating (this meant he didn't light anything on fire when no one was looking), and had even been particularly kind to the carolers (he'd not hexed a single one!)

Of course, it was all for a purpose. He'd merely been biding his time, waiting for Christmas to roll around again.

He is desperate for answers.

He is desperate to _know_.

His fist clenches as he remembers.

* * *

" _No!" Tom shouts. "No, no! What's your name? I don't even know your name!" The girl fades from view, her eyes wide and panicked._

 _Tom slams his fist against the doorpost, his magic rolling off him in angry waves. He feels something wet drip down his cheek and he freezes. His hand raises up slowly, brushing away the moisture from under his eyes._

 _Turmoil. That's the only way to describe how he feels. She is gone. She's gone. He'd had her. He'd had his soulmate._ _ **His**_ _soulmate. And now she's gone._

 _He yells, voice breaking, and all the windows in the library shatter._

" _I will find you," he vows. "I will find you because you are_ _ **mine."**_

* * *

In the months following he'd done his research. In fact, research was pretty much the only thing he did. It consumed him. The more he learned, the more obsessed he grew, to the point that he had read every single book in the library that so much as mentioned soulmates. It became his foremost goal to talk to her again, to _have_ her.

She'd become something of a prize in his eyes. A gift given to him ever so symbolically on Christmas.

He'd memorized every word she'd said during the time he'd been with her. He'd gone over every possible place she could have come from.

Her Gryffindor robes gave it away, though.

She was from the future.

It had taken him less than three days to figure it out. Everything made so much more sense that way. It would explain why she knew to be afraid of him right away and had attempted to walk away as soon as she heard his name. She knew him in the future, or knew of him. He wasn't sure which was preferable.

The real question was: how far into the future was she from? He couldn't be sure. If she knew of him as Tom Riddle she couldn't be from too far, because he planned on ridding himself of that name completely at the first opportunity. But then, there would likely still be a few, even fifty years in the future, who knew his true name. He scowls at the thought.

Despite her murky origins, he _does_ know that the specific type of soulmate that they are is Core soulmates. The very rarest kind of all. Core soulmates were matched in every conceivable way, from their intelligence to their personalities down even to the way they looked. Matched, of course, did not necessarily mean equal, as he'd come to find out in his extensive readings. It simply referred to the fact that each of their attributes would complement the attributes of the other. Where she was weak he'd be strong, and where he lacked she'd have excess. The ultimate beneficial ally.

It was difficult to grasp, especially since she hadn't _seemed_ to complement him very well. She'd been merely an irritant for most of the time. Still, something in him calls to her, a part of him he is sure he hadn't had before, or that had been buried so deeply he might never have known it was there at all.

"Abraxas," he calls. The oafish blond boy hurries over from where he'd been pretending to be fascinated with the fireplace.

"Yes, Tom?" He'd insisted they refer to him as such in public. Being called 'My Lord' was a good way to make people suspicious, and he didn't need Dumbledore anymore nosy than he already was.

"Make sure no one tries to get into the Come and Go Room tonight. I don't care how you keep them away, so long as you don't get caught." He can't risk being interrupted, he only has one chance to get everything right. Face blank, he continues, "If I am not at breakfast tomorrow morning, you can assume I will not be returning at all. In that case, I want you to take over for me and lead the Knights."

"Me, Tom?" Abraxas gapes. "But they won't listen to me if you aren't there! And what will I tell the teachers if they ask?"

He'd considered carefully his many intelligent options, but the one he'd finally settled on was, "Fuck if I care."

There is something decidedly fearful in Abraxas' gaze as he poses his next question, voice only just barely keeping from shaking. "Are you sure you're alright? You truly might not ever return?" Tom knows it isn't like him to be so blase about something as important as this, but he has no intention of ever coming back, so what does any of it matter, really. So long as his noble work continues under someone relatively competent, as Abraxas usually is, he isn't worried.

The reassuring smile he aims at Abraxas must be more unsettling than he was originally going for, because the boy turns white and practically sprints from the room when Tom dismisses him.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Loud, clear bongs echo through the Common Room as the clock strikes 10. Two hours to midnight. It is nearly time. Tom's smile stretches wider.

* * *

Hermione glares at Ginny, who's currently holding her book out of reach, giggling all the while. "Give that back!" Hermione demands, attempting to grab it again. The redhead twirls out of the way just in time. "Ginny!"

Spending winter break at the Burrow was a dream come true, but sometimes there were moments when Hermione wished for solitude from the cramped environment. This is one of them.

"Hermione!" Ginny mimics mockingly. She runs to Ron when he enters the room, using his broad form as a shield. He looks confused before he glances behind him and sees the book clutched in Ginny's thieving hands. To Hermione's gratitude, he makes a swipe for it. Ginny ducks away, a scandalized expression on her face. "Ron, how could you!" she swats her brother.

"You know how Hermione gets when her books are taken away from her," he laughs.

"What?" Hermione rounds on him. "How do I get?" His eyes grow comically wide.

"I only meant that you can take it a bit personally is all," he says, hands raised in surrender. She narrows her eyes at him. He gulps.

"Maybe if people weren't always taking them I wouldn't take it so personally!" at this she turns to face Ginny again, who had taken to reading the back of the book while Hermione was distracted. "Ginny, please give me my book back." She holds out her hand expectantly.

"Why are you reading about being reunited with your soulmate?" Ginny asks, a frown evident on her features. Hermione's face heats up.

"No, reason. It's just-just academic. It's interesting," she says defensively. Lying has never been something she's enjoyed (mostly because she's horrible at it.)

"That's a lie," Ron is frowning when she looks back at him. "You've been acting strangely for months now. What are you hiding?" What a loaded question _that_ is.

* * *

 _Tom Riddle's shocked eyes fade from view and her yells fall silent as she hurtles through space and time. It feels like thousands of knives being repeatedly driven into her navel. It feels like badly done Apparition and broken time turners. It feels like a broken heart._

 _There is no air, no light, as she stretches across decades. Every cell burns, in a way she's never experienced before. Her lungs crackle, unable to either take in or expel air. Tears sting her eyes but can't spill over._

 _Pause._

 _She is slammed back into her time._

 _Hermione remains frozen._

 _It takes 30 devastating seconds for her to fully realize what just took place. It will probably take her days to process everything from start to finish. As it is, she immediately doubles over sobbing. Her eyes spill forth hot tears._

 _Minutes pass._

 _Hermione breathes in deeply once, twice, again and again. Her fingers tremble when she runs them though her enormous hair._

 _She's in exactly the same spot she'd left from originally, the book on soulmates sitting innocently on the table. It terrifies her, to have it so near._

 _Everything looks the same as before. The library smells the same. The same golden sunlight filters through the castle's windows. But it isn't the same. None of it. She's changed things, she knows. The whole world may very well be completely different from how she left it._

 _She's already in the library, so she dries her tears and does what Hermione Granger loves best - she studies._

 _Hogwarts: A History is the first book she summons. She runs the pads of her fingertips over the familiar cover. Everything is fine until she cracks it open. Instantly, she knows something is wrong._ _ **Changed.**_

 _The second to last chapter is labelled 'Modern Headmasters: Armando Dippet to Abraxas Malfoy.'_

 _This is bad. This is_ very very _bad._

 _Hermione flips the pages until she's at the right place, and then she reads. She reads and reads until her eyes are dry and sore and the sun has long since set. Her wand tip shines on the tiny type, illuminating every disastrous word._

 _Everything she knows has been ripped away. Dumbledore, the book mentions in passing, died in a magical accident involving an experiment in the Unspeakable division back in the 1960s. She was never close to the man, but he treated her fairly and seemed to try to do the right thing. The death of one who would have become such a powerful figure of Light will not have had minimal effects._

 _Surprisingly, there are no mentions of the Dark Lord in any of the chapters. There isn't a single word to so much as hint that anything in the world is wrong. There are no chapters talking about (as she assumed there would be) the glorious destruction of Mudbloods and Muggles. In fact, it seems quite the opposite is true._

 _Under the leadership of Abraxas Malfoy, the school only became more inclusive and welcoming to Muggleborns. It's exactly the opposite of what she would have expected. It's suspicious. The book sings the praises of the progressive-mindedness of the man that had been wildly racist in her own time._

" _What the fuck?"_

 _Hermione bangs her head against the table._

 _A thought occurs to her, and she takes off towards the student registry section. Her footsteps echo against the stone in her haste. In the poor light of her half-assed_ lumos _she just barely avoids careening into a bookcase that she's sure wasn't there before._

" _Where are you?" she mutters, panting at the exertion in a way that'd be rather embarrassing were anyone else present to witness it._

 _They're sorted by year, and it doesn't take long for Hermione to find the registry she's looking for. 1943. At least, that's when she estimates she arrived in the past due to how old Riddle looked._

 _The registry is a faded brown book with a gold inlay pattern that resembles a distant galaxy. The stars glitter and move, and when she looks closer there are occasional shooting stars of silver. It's a beautifully crafted book._

 _She thumbs through page after page of smiling students in stylish 40's clothing, each one looking directly into her soul._ They know, _she thinks._

 _She almost misses him._

 _The only reason she doesn't pass his page entirely is because of a partially disintegrated newspaper clipping that juts out from the crease. It's so thin she's afraid it will turn to dust when she pinches the corner ever so gently to free it from its prison._

' _Star Pupil Vanishes Without a Trace' the headline reads. Hermione chokes on her heart. Beneath the offending title is a picture of Tom. It's the same one as his registry book photo; him flashing a winning smile at the camera in an endless loop of fake mirth._

 _The article describes the apparent mystery that was the disappearance of everyone's favourite Slytherin. During the Christmas break of the December of his seventh year, he simply vanished from the face of the earth. There had been an astounding lack of evidence; not a single sign of any kind of struggle, and yet all of his personal effects had been left behind. It appeared equally unlikely that he'd been kidnapped as it was that he'd ran article ended on a hopeful note, saying that there had probably been some honest mistake and he'd be found soon._

 _Had she truly altered the timeline so horrendously?_

 _Is it even horrendous? So far everything in this new, strange world seems far more appealing than her own._

 _And yet._

 _And yet, she is an aberration, a glitch, a terrible glaring wrong. The laws of time travel do not yield. Time is unforgiving. It will not long suffer her to remain here without consequences._

" _Hermione!" It startles her so badly she drops the registry with a thud. An invisible hand clamps over her mouth, silencing her cry of surprise. "It's just me-it's Harry." The relief that floods into her at knowing that even here, in some distorted parallel universe, he is still her friend overwhelms her. Instantly, she turns around and throws her arms around him, tears pricking her eyes again. She breathes in his scent, the same as she remembers it, thank god._

" _What's wrong? Hermione?" he pulls back enough to lift up the invisibility cloak to look her in the eyes. Her eyes fix on his unscarred forehead. His hands come to rest on her shoulders. "I was worried when you didn't show up for dinner. Why are you crying?"_

 _It only takes a split second for her to decide to tell him the truth. The weight will kill her if she doesn't, and he is her best friend, after all. "Harry, I have to tell you something. It's going to take a while, and while I'm talking I just want you to listen, okay?"_

 _His eyes search her face, and he answers, slowly, "Okay, Hermione, you can tell me whatever you need to."_

" _Come on, we don't want to get caught out of bed, let's go to the Room of Requirement."_

" _The what?" In this life they must have never needed it to hold D.A. meetings. While that's definitely good, it's also somehow sad._

 _It takes roughly three hours to recount the whole story, starting with how Voldemort tried to kill him as a baby, to how her, him, and Ron became friends, to all the dangers they'd overcome over the years, to the events of the past day._

 _She does not, however, tell him that Tom Riddle was Voldemort. It feels too close to betrayal, even though it's not technically her fault. She merely describes Tom as a boy from the past and leaves it at that._

 _When she finishes, he stares at the wall for twenty minutes, completely lost in thought._

" _Well?" Hermione asks, biting her lip in anticipation._

" _I just, it's so hard to fathom. I believe you, I really and truly do." She releases her breath in a whoosh. "There's no way you could make all that up. I'm just struggling because, well, it's a lot to take in," he pauses, searching for the right words. His next words are tentative, as though afraid to upset her, "Hermione, do you have any idea what happened to the Hermione from this timeline?" She almost doesn't catch the crack in his voice, but she does._

 _She understands. She isn't the girl he knows, just as he isn't the boy-who-lived. She's not the friend that he's spent years with._

" _No, I'm sorry, Harry." He nods once, swallows, and forces a grin._

 _They mutually agree not to tell their friends, and she's relieved to hear that her, Ron, Harry, Ginny, Neville, and Luna are friends in this timeline as well._

 _By the end of the first month of pretending to understand inside jokes and obsessively studying the history of the past 50 years it almost feels like home. There are times when someone will refer to something that she doesn't understand, but will_ almost _understand, like she's just temporarily forgotten._

 _It is with the passing of the second month that she begins to remember. Only small things at first, like where this timeline's Hermione kept her stash of sugar quills or why Neville has a faint scar on his nose. But then she keeps remembering. More and more important things. Things like why Ron sometimes stares at her sadly or why Draco Malfoy is amiable and friendly. It doesn't take her long to figure out that she's receiving the memories from this Hermione's life._

 _By the time the third month has come and gone she remembers it all. Not every second, but all the important things. It's a strange feeling, to have the memories of two different lives. It makes her feel older. It's confusing. She knows that she didn't live this life, and yet she has all the memories that say she did._

 _Harry looks hopeful when she tells him, and in her heart she knows it's because he wants his friend back._

" _It'll be okay, Hermione," he says on a cold afternoon in the middle of the eighth month, hands wrapped around a mug of cocoa. "You'll adjust."_

" _I miss it." He turns to look at her, but she stares out the window at the wind scattering leaves across the grass. "Not so much the whole constant danger aspect of it, but I miss them." She doesn't have to specify who._

 _He doesn't speak, merely wraps his arm around her shoulders and stands with her, both lost in thought._

* * *

"Look, Ginny, just give me my book back, please." Hermione stiffly reaches for the proffered book.

"You're avoiding the question," Ron huffs.

"I'm not having this discussion with you right now."

"That would imply that you're willing to have this discussion later, which I know you aren't! I've been trying to talk to you for weeks but you keep blowing me off and I'm sick of it!" That much was true. In her defense, it was only because she'd known he'd see through her if she lied, and yet telling him the truth was a bad idea. She'd dealt with the situation by pretending it didn't exist. Not the most brilliant of moves in hindsight.

"Guys, maybe we-" Ginny attempts to defuse the mounting tension.

"No! She's being suspicious and I bloody well intend to find out why."

"Okay! Okay you know what? Fine! Ask away! What do you want to know, hmm?" Ron starts to speak but she continues, "And don't hold back on my account, you've made it perfectly clear how much you care about my feelings on the topic."

"Now, that's not fair! You know that I have every right to-"

"That's rich, I've asked you to give me time but you keep-"

"-these things because you avoid the issue every time! If you weren't so-"

"-and seem to have no regard that maybe I don't _want_ to tell you what's bothering me-"

Ginny leaves the room with a shake of her head, yelling out, "Harry!"

"-then I wouldn't be so suspicious of you! You just have to have-"

"-you can't just leave it alone! There was a time when I would've told you but now? Are you kidding-"

"-all the time. It's always you who wins in the end and-"

"Both of you shut the hell up!" Harry storms into the room, a fierce scowl on his face. Ginny stands on her tiptoes to watch over his shoulder. He crosses his arms. "Ron, you have been far too impatient and demanding of Hermione. You should have respected her wish for more time and let her come to you. And you, Hermione," a weary look passes through his eyes, "I think it's time."

"But-I, that's not-"

"Hermione, it's been a year," he says.

"Not quite," her voice sounds small, even to her own ears. "It was three days before Christmas when I left."

"Still, I think we should tell them."

"Tell us what?" Ron's confused face blinks back at her.

* * *

"Thank you, Abraxas," Tom says. The blond boy scratches his head, a queer expression marring his aristocratic features. "Yes, Abraxas? What is it?" he reaches for the box of potions ingredients clutched in Abraxas' hand. Inside holds all the final ingredients, including the original sands of time from Egypt.

"Why do you need newt eyes _and_ unicorn tears? I've never heard of any potion having both those ingredients. Together they-"

"-they cause the potion to implode. Yes, I know."

"Then why are you using them? Not to mention the ancient rune stones over there," he jerks his pointed chin at the massive stone slabs leaning against the wall.

"You'll find out soon enough."

"Tom, whatever you're doing I hope you got it from a reliable source," Abraxas eyes the vial of vampire blood that Tom holds up to pour into a measuring cup.

A red glint flashes through the future dark lord's eyes at the implication that he might not know what he's doing. "Yes, of course," his teeth grind together. "Speaking of knowing what you're doing, you should be outside the hall keeping other people away from here right now."

"Right. Yes, of course."

"You have your pocket watch with you?"

Abraxas holds up the flashy gold trinket. "As requested. It's enchanted to always be exactly on time."

"Excellent. I want you to meet me back here at fifteen minutes to midnight."

The blond nods respectfully, taking his leave.

"Finally," Tom says once the other boy is out of earshot. He picks up a container of phoenix ashes and sifts through the contents with a fine strainer. Satisfied with the quality, he turns to the next ingredient. He's already checked each component at least three times, but there's no harm in checking again.

The habit of humming while he works has always been his most hated quality. Not by others, though. Girls found it cute and Slughorn chuckled whenever he caught him. It had actually turned out to be rather a good way of endearing himself to the school populace. His knights even respected him on it, because they believed it to be part of his perfect school boy persona. However, he himself absolutely despises it. It's humiliating. The worst part is that it's completely unintentional; sometimes he has no clue he's even doing it until he's halfway through a song. So, when he purposely begins humming, he considers it part of the start of a new chapter in his life.

The instructions are written in an ancient Babylonian text that had taken two months to translate. The text itself had been difficult to procure, as it had gone missing in the ninth century and he'd had to track it down himself.

In truth, the ritual described in it was even more extensive than he'd thought it would be. Some ingredients for the potion aspect had to be gathered on days with certain moons with certain types of weather, and some had to be added to the potion while standing in a fairy ring, while others still required the potioneer to be mortally wounded at the time of the adding. That was to say nothing of the rest of the process.

Tom pours exactly two cups of unicorn tears into the bubbling cauldron. Purple honey-scented smoke rises in distinct spirals. He pricks his finger with a cursed dagger, the memorized chant echoing in his head.

" _Anima sanguis morti mortis infinite duorum."_ The words taste like charcoal and burning rubber in his mouth. He whispers the words again, hand raised to touch the cut to his lips as he speaks. " _Anima sanguis morti mortis infinite duorum."_

The liquid turns a furious hot pink when he lets a single drop of blood drip inside. He can feel it as soon as it hits the surface of the potion, bubbling and boiling. It churns in time with his stomach.

It's almost ready.

The clock strikes eleven.

Tom uses his wand to carve a pentagram into the smooth stone of the floor. It's large enough to stand in but not big enough to be more than five feet across. Within each point he carves an ancient Babylonian rune: bumi, munus, zadmin, assur, and kam. Carefully, he fills each rune with the sands of time and the lines of the actual pentagram itself with the phoenix ashes. On each point of the pentagram he places one of the ancient rune stones.

The now scarlet potion simmers as he adds in another drop of blood, this time the vampire's. A dark sheen covers the surface of the liquid. Tom smirks.

He grinds up faerie bones and mixes them in, stirring clockwise four times. He thinks of how he found and killed the faeries himself, their greenish yellow blood staining his fingers for days. He thinks of the tiny, nearly-imperceptible squeaks of terror they made as he cast severing curses at their necks. He thinks of how it made him feel the tiniest bit guilty, though he never would have before _her._

The potion has only left to simmer, so Tom walks back over to the pentagram on the floor to make sure the sand and ashes are poured in perfectly. When he feels that not a single particle is out of place he starts setting up the torches to surround the are tall, sturdy metal poles of the strangest design, their twisted shape reminiscent of a broken spine. They bear purple flames that dance slowly and silently. Unnaturally.

He picks up the cursed dagger and places it on the table just next to his ominous ritual area. It is perhaps the most important item he will need for this to work.

His lungs require several deep gasps of air when he thinks of all he will have to endure tonight. _It will be worth it._ The mantra rings far too inadequate now that he is actually faced with the moment of culmination. Infinite ways this could go wrong strangle his mind.

"Tom?" Abraxas startles him.

"Is it time already?"

"Yes," the blond shifts his weight from foot to foot.

"Take that dagger and hold onto it for me, I'll tell you what to do when it's time," Tom says. The other boy shuffles over to the table and picks up the blade, examining it with thinly veiled interest.

Tom steps into the center of the pentagram, and then uses his wand to levitate the cauldron holding the potion over him. He turns to Abraxas.

"When all of the potion is gone, no matter what state I am in, you need to do exactly as I say. You must place my head, hands, and feet on one of the five points-each on one of the rune stones. Then you are going to carve out my heart and say ' _anima sanguis morti mortis infinite duorum_.'"

"Tom!" Abraxas cuts in, panic filling his eyes. "Tom I can't do that."

"You can and you will. We don't have the time to debate the issue. At exactly midnight you're then going to stab my heart and repeat the phrase again. Then you might want to get as far away as possible, as the texts aren't clear what kind of reaction there could be."

Tom holds up his hand to silence Abraxas' inelegant stuttering. "Can you remember all of that?" He holds out a piece of paper to the blond, then responds to his own question. "No matter, you can read it all for yourself as it's happening."

"No, Tom, this is where I-"

" _Silencio."_ Abraxas continues to angrily gesticulate for ten seconds before realizing no sound is coming out. He crosses his arms.

"Good. I'll remove that once it's time to begin."

The would-have-been future dark lord looks up at the floating cauldron above his head and mutters a quick prayer to a deity he doesn't believe in.

Tom nonverbally removes the silencing curse on Abraxas, giving the other boy a nod to indicate this. "It's time. Come closer and be ready for as soon as all the potion is gone." His tone brooks no room for disagreement.

With a flick of his wand, the dark portion spills onto his perfectly styled hair. It resembles blood. He turns his head this way and that, letting the liquid spill into his open eyes, his ears, his nose and his mouth. Still, it keeps coming, coating him from head to toe in a gruesome flood of red.

Tom's eyes roll back into his head and his body shudders with violent tremors. Without warning he drops to his knees and lets out a horrifying, unearthly shriek. It goes on and on, at a pitch too strange and layered to be entirely Tom's own. The hairs on the back of Abraxas' neck stand to attention.

It cuts off as soon as the last drop the the potion falls on Tom's head. The dark haired boy continues kneeling in the middle of the pentagram, eyes having closed sometime during his scream. Dread, strong and dizzying, curls itself in Abraxas' stomach.

Tom's eyes snap open. Completely blood red. No whites, no irises, no pupils. Just blood that leaks out in fat drops down the boy's pale cheeks.

"Do it," Tom rasps.

Abraxas jumps to action, setting down the dagger and grabbing Tom by the shoulders to push him down into a lying position. He half drags him the two feet to the nearest point, putting Tom's head on the thick stone slab placed there. With each limb he follows suit until Tom is in spread eagle position in the pentagram, each of his main appendages touching one of the points of the star.

"Do it," says Tom again, this time weaker. His eerie eyes flicker.

Tears well up in Abraxas' eyes. "If this goes wrong I want you to know I considered you my friend," he says. He imagines that Tom would roll his eyes were he capable.

He picks up the dagger.

"I'm sorry, Tom," Abraxas whispers, and plunges the blade into the other boy's chest. The effect is instantaneous; all the purple torches simultaneously flare up, washing everything in a violet glow. A buzzing sound fills the room. Tom goes rigid, his body locking in place.

Then his breaths come faster. His heart pounds against his rib cage and blood, real blood, oozes out around the blade. Yet Abraxas keeps carving away.

The blond boy forces the dagger to tear through muscle and flesh, tears now falling freely. The air tastes of copper, salt, and the acrid film of smoke. He chokes back bile. His fingers slip on the handle, damp with sweat and blood that has spurted up.

Tom gurgles, now frothing at the mouth. Abraxas sobs, every cell begging him to stop the madness.

He drops the dagger, pushing it as far away as he can. It clangs as it smacks against the leg of the table.

Fingers trembling, already sticky with blood, Abraxas reaches for the opening he's sliced in his friend. He stops, index finger just barely brushing the puckered wound, and takes a breath.

One, two, three, four.

It's too much. He retches, puke splattering the floor just next to Tom's head. He tries not to look at it.

With a final deep breath through his mouth, Abraxas pushes his fingers into Tom's chest. It's warm and damp, and he can feel the blood seeping out in time with the erratic heartbeats.

His hand just fits through Tom's ribs. Using his free hand, he fishes his wand out of his pocket and mutters a spell to widen the gap between the bones. A sickening crack echoes as the ribs spread apart.

Abraxas glances down through swollen eyes, looking at his hand gripping Tom's heart. It's not beating as hard anymore, and with each beat Tom's face loses more colour. He's nearly dead.

With a yell of hysteria, Abraxas rips his hand, along with the heart in it, from Tom Riddle's chest. It continues to beat, expanding and contracting in Abraxas' palm. The boy drops it back onto its owner's mutilated, unmoving chest.

" _Anima sanguis morti mortis infinite duorum,"_ he manages to say.

He stares.

The only sound the faint ticking of his pocket watch.

Then it hits him. Frantically, he digs out the gold trinket.

40 seconds to midnight.

He drops it to the floor in his haste to get to the cursed dagger. He crawls to where he'd foolishly cast it, closing his fingers around the handle, sticky with partially congealed blood.

30 seconds to midnight.

He's starting to hyperventilate when he gets back to Tom, eyes wild and lungs starved for air. Without looking he takes Tom's heart from his chest and sets it on the floor next to his body. Hand trembling, Abraxas positions the dagger above the heart.

15 seconds.

A film of sweat beads on the blond's brow.

The purple flames cast shadows that twist and loom in the corners of the room.

A fresh bout of nausea wells up.

8 seconds.

The grandfather clock in the Slytherin Common Room begins its melancholy chime.

5 seconds.

Sweat coats Abraxas' hands, causing the dagger to slide down through his grip. He adjusts and re-tightens his hold.

3.

2.

1.

The blade pierces Tom Riddle's heart at exactly midnight.

" _Anima sanguis morti mortis infinite duorum!"_ Abraxas shouts.

If the torches were bright before, then they are glaring now, the purple drowning out every colour but itself. The ancient rune tablets light up from within, yellow beams pouring out from the inscribed characters. The sand and ash from the pentagram ascend into a column in the air, a dark vortex of powder.

The ground shakes, a crack splitting open the stone, and Abraxas remembers that Tom told him to get as far away as possible. He takes off in a dead sprint.

Tom's corpse ascends of its own accord, the ash and sand swirling around it. They gather and flow into his body through the gaping hole in his chest. His body vibrates with magic.

The purple and yellow lights descend on him and split through his atoms. Brighter and brighter shines his skin.

Pure white envelops the room.

* * *

Three corridors down, Abraxas Malfoy skids to a halt at the sight of his Transfiguration professor.

"Professor Dumbledore," he says, gasping for air. The man's garish purple and gold robes shine in the dark hallway, his auburn hair and beard stirring gently in the breeze Abraxas created.

"Mister Malfoy," Dumbledore inclines his head ever so slightly.

"It was good to see you, Professor," Abraxas says, already starting to move past the man in order to resume running away.

He's made it nearly to the turn in the corridor when Dumbledore speaks again, "You don't have to follow this path. You can forge your own. You can forge a better path."

"Excuse me?" Abraxas' voice trembles. He stops right at the end of the hall.

"I can help you," blue eyes puncture holes through his skull. Abraxas grips the rough corner of stone, working his jaw.

He turns to face the professor. "How?"

* * *

"Can someone please explain to me what's going on?" Ginny asks.

Hermione ignores her. "Harry we have no way of knowing how they might take it!"

"You two didn't have an affair did you?" Ron interjects, face appropriately red and angry at the thought.

"No! I would never do that to Ginny!"

"I already knew that, but it's nice to hear you say it," Ginny says.

"Harry, can I talk to you in private for a moment?" The pleading tone doesn't impress her friend.

Hermione and Harry stare at each other, Hermione silently begging and Harry impassively looking back at her. Then, at the same time they speak, talking over each other.

"Hermione's a time traveler and she went back really far and-"

"I've contracted terminal Dragon Pox and only have six months-"

"She's lying!" Harry cuts himself off. He turns to her, "What a horrible lie to come up with anyway! That's honestly even worse than the actual truth."

"It's worse than the fact that I completely destroyed the original timeline and-"

"Wait! So it's true?" Ginny's jaw falls open. "Why didn't you say anything sooner? What was it like? How far back did you go? How'd you get there? Did you-"

"Leave her alone, Gin," this from Ron, who's brows knit together and jaw locks. He, too, turns to Hermione. "Why didn't you tell me? I thought we were best friends." His harsh tone cracks at the end.

"Ron, I would have, but I'm not…" she trails off. "I'm not the Hermione that you've known for your whole life. I'm a different Hermione from a different timeline. I've lived a whole different life from the girl you knew.

"We were best friends back in the life that I came from, too. We had plenty of adventures, and got into all kinds of trouble," she smiles fondly at the memories. When she glances at Harry he smiles encouragingly, urging her on. "When I came here I was scared and terrified, so so terrified, that due to what I had changed we might never have become friends here. You can't even imagine my relief when I found out I still had you and Harry. I was selfish, and I didn't want to lose you when you found out I was an imposter-an error in time who'd replaced your best friend. I'm sorry, Ron."

Ron stares.

The silence stifles everyone standing in the room that's suddenly too small.

Harry clears his throat.

Hermione bites back her nervous laughter.

"I have a question: if you aren't the same Hermione as before, then how'd you know all that stuff from the past? This past, I mean, like inside jokes and just random history." Ginny tilts her head to the side, eyes narrowed in scrutiny.

"Right, well as it turned out, after a few months here I started to get memories from this Hermione's life. It took a while, but now I know pretty much everything. To be honest it's really confusing. It feels like I've led two lives. Sometimes I have a hard time figuring out which memories are from which life."

"Plus I helped her when she first arrived. I tried to get her out of answering certain things without making it too noticeable," adds Harry. Ginny nods with a look of realization.

"That's so strange, though." Ginny takes all of this in stride, seemingly already having recovered from the shock.

"Yeah I know, I've researched it since-"

"You could have told me," Ron whispers. The three others glance at each other. "Finding out when you first came back would have been better than this. It would have been better than hiding the truth for months on end with no intention of ever sharing."

"I was going to tell you-"

"When? When were you going to tell me? In another year? Two? Three?"

"Lay off her, Ron," Harry says, reaching out a placating hand. Ron slaps it away and takes a step backwards. "She went through an extremely difficult experience and it's a wonder she handled it as well as she did. She did what she thought was right at the time, which is all we could have asked of her."

"I need time to process all of this," Ron responds, shaking his head. He Disapparates with a crack.

"That could have gone better," Hermione stares at her feet.

"Frankly, I think he took it rather splendidly," Ginny reassures her. "He'll come around."

"I know, and I'm so grateful for that, even if he is cross with me for now."

Harry speaks up, using a finger to push his glasses back up his nose, "If you want to hear the full story, Hermione and I can tell you now that it's out in the open anyway." He looks to Hermione for confirmation.

"Yeah, that's fine," Hermione concedes. Ginny's eyes light up. "What do you want to know first?"

* * *

"Hermione, it's Christmas, you're not allowed to be in a bad mood," Ron sits next to her on the couch and claps her shoulder with a friendly hand. He'd gotten over his anger in record time, having only completely ignored her for two weeks and been surly for an additional week before giving in.

"I just-I just really thought that he'd be there. I really thought he'd decided to travel to the future. I did my research, and all signs pointed to him showing up. It was exactly a year from when I left. Three days before Christmas. But he-"

"We've been over this, Hermione. No one knows what happened to him. Maybe he didn't decide to travel to the future, that was just a guess anyway. Maybe he just decided to run away and-"

"You know that's highly unlikely!" Hermione crosses her arms, irritated without a valid reason.

"Actually, I know nothing of the sort! You've explained everything else but you've been tight-lipped where he's concerned. You don't seem to want us to know anything about who he was in your original timeline, which makes me wonder if he-"

"Would you stop being suspicious of everything I say or don't say? Ever since I told you, you've been ridiculous with your-"

"That's not a denial! You can't even deny it!" He stands, pacing in front of her.

Hermione sighs. Her tone softer than before, "I wish I could."

"Look, I'm sorry, I know you were hoping-"

The Burrow rattles as the very earth trembles beneath it. Dust pours down from cracks in the plaster and gaps between boards. Ron throws his arms up to protect his head while Hermione casts a shield charm over both of them.

A ripple of magic splits the air above them. It flattens out into a glowing, pulsing disc that emits a low hum as it hovers over their heads. From the middle of the disc starts a hole that grows wider and wider, stretching open to reveal the inside as a dark void straight up.

A large object, too fast to be identified, shoots out of the hole. In her surprise, Hermione drops her shield and the thing lands on top of Ron at full speed, knocking him to the ground with a sickening crack.

She rushes over with a gasp, her mouth a perfect 'o' of surprise at the discovery that the object is actually a person. Not just any person, either.

Tom Riddle lays unconscious on the floor next to Ron Weasley.

A groan jerks her into moving again, and she kneels next to Ron. She mutters healing spells under her breath, trying not to look at Tom. Ron pushes her away, turning to look at the boy next to him.

"Where does it hurt?" Her voice quivers, trying to contain her redhead ignores her. "Ron, where does it hurt?"

"That's him, isn't it," he states it as a fact. Because, really, who else could he be?

"Yes, I believe so, now let me tend to your-"

"Is he dangerous; yes or no?" Ron's piercing blue eyes search her face. She remains silent, opting instead to look at the dark haired boy sprawled out on Molly's family room floor. "Is he a threat to my family?" He demands, already taking out his wand.

"I don't know!" Ron's lips flatten out into a pale line of frustration. "Yes! Okay, yes, he's bloody dangerous! I really wish I could tell you that he's not, but everything I know about him says the opposite."

"So you brought someone potentially harmful to my family's house-"

"I didn't _bring_ him, he fell through a magical portal thing and-"

"Either way there's a dangerous person here-"

"Listen!" Hermione shouts, chest rising and falling in short bursts. The terrified look that he only gets when she's furious with him creeps up his features. "I had nothing to do with his coming here, and I'm sorry that he is! Everything would be so much easier if he'd never existed in the first place! Having him," she points at Tom, still passed out, "as my soulmate ruined everything!"

Softly, Ron says, "I'm sorry, Hermione." He touches her arm. "But he did come didn't he? You were right."

"We have to do something with him, we can't just leave him on the floor." Hermione asserts, choosing not to comment on his statement. She brings her hands up to place one on her hip and run the other through her hair.

"We could-"

"I know!" She cuts him off. "Go get some rope; it has to be non magical. I'll take care of the rest."

* * *

Tom Riddle wakes up in an uncomfortable metal chair, sore and drained of energy. He raises a hand to rub over his eyes, but finds that he can't move it. Groggily, he blinks the sleep from his eyes. He jerks his arm, trying to free it, and his wrist burns as it chafes against something rough that binds it to his other wrist.

"What the-"

"It's only temporary." He whips his head around to look at the speaker, a shaggy haired boy with glasses. "Or, we assume that it will be. If you do something threatening or otherwise questionable we might have to turn you over to the Ministry."

Tom remains silent. The boy walks closer, Summoning a chair for himself. He sits across from Tom and folds his hands in his lap. The old, yellow bulb that dangles over them buzzes faintly, occasionally flickering.

"Who are you?" the boy asks.

"Who are _you?"_ Tom counters.

The boy looks momentarily surprised, as though this was not the reaction he expected. "My name is Harry Potter," he says after a pause.

Silence reigns. Tom lets it stretch on, perfectly comfortable. He stares at the wall behind the boy's-Harry's head.

The light flickers, casting shadows over their faces.

"Well?" Harry breaks down first, as Tom knew he would. "Who are you? I told you my name, now you tell me yours."

Tom slides his gaze over slowly, taking his time locking eyes with Harry. He raises an eyebrow. "I'm Tom Riddle."

"And how did you get here, Tom Riddle?"

"Why do I get the feeling you already know the answer to that?" Tom queries, a faux innocent expression plastered on.

"Dammit, just answer it!" Harry's nails dig into his palms, leaving dark purple crescents in the skin.

"I invented a new kind of magical portal," Tom lies easily.

"Wrong," Harry shakes his head. "I know for a fact you time traveled. I want to know what method you used. I want to know how you did it."

"And if I don't have the answers you want?"

"Then I'm afraid I'll have to resort to more convincing tactics."

It's rather obviously a bluff, based on the look on the boy's face, but Tom decides to humour him. "A ritual."

"What?" Harry's nose scrunches, glasses shifting higher as it does.

"The method," Tom elaborates, now speaking as though Harry is a child, "It was a ritual."

"Oh. Right," Harry doesn't look pleased. "Which one, specifically? We found several that we suspected you might have used, but none were conclusive."

"Where is she?"

"We need to know which ritual you used," Harry goes on, ignoring Tom's question as much as Tom ignored his, "because some alter the space-time continuum and some are designed to keep it intact. If you used one that damaged it then we only have a limited amount of time to fix it before things start to get messed up."

The rope restraints that keep him tied to the chair are frustratingly Muggle. They aren't magically tied, either, which means he'd have to manage a wandless nonverbal slicing hex in order to get free unnoticed. Tom focuses all his concentration on performing the spell, but he's still drained from the ritual. His magical core needs time to recover.

"It was the Ancient Babylonian method," Tom spits, the knowledge that the sooner he gets this over with the sooner he can leave driving him forward. "By now the texts containing the process will have been destroyed, but I assure you, it did no damage to the space-time continuum. It was created in the days when magic flowed freely and was wielded precisely to control all of nature, even time itself. You will run into no difficulties on my account."

"Did you get that, Hermione?" Harry half shouts to the door. "He said it was the Ancient Babylonian method!"

"Yeah, I got," comes the muffled reply. He knows that voice. He'd spent weeks thinking about it. It belongs to _her_.

"She's here?" Tom strains against the ropes. "Let me talk to her."

"No," Harry stands and brushes imaginary dust from his collar. He walks to the door and exits without another word.

"Hermione," Tom murmurs. "Her name is Hermione."

* * *

They stand in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, debating the issue of the boy locked in one of the spare rooms. In this timeline, Sirius had never gone to Azkaban, but was still Harry's godfather, and had willingly lent the room to them in order to figure things out.

"I want to talk to him," Hermione says stubbornly.

"No, I think it's a bad idea."

"Harry, he's tied to a chair and his magic is almost completely gone! Not to mention I can handle myself."

"I won't stop you if you really want to, now that we know he was telling the truth about how he came here," Harry searches her face. "Just be careful. I know you've said that you don't think he'd try to hurt you, but he came here for a reason. I don't trust him."

Hermione takes a deep breath. "I know, and I don't either, but I have to talk to him, Harry. I have to know."

"I understand," he says, lips slanted downwards. "Ron won't be happy about this," he mutters to himself once she's out of earshot.

She trudges up the stairs to the room they've been keeping him in, wondering if she should knock. It would be impolite to just barge in, but he's kind of a prisoner, so she's not sure politeness is still applicable. Then again, she isn't the type to be rude.

In the end, she doesn't have to decide. "Are you going to stand out there forever or do you plan on coming in?" Tom's scornful voice filters through the door. She scowls. Hermione casts the spell to undo the many complicated locking charms, and enters with a huff.

He looks the same as she remembers him, if a bit more tired. Dark smudges under his eyes reveal exactly how taxing the ritual he performed must have been. His dark hair has a dull quality to it, so unlike the perfectly styled, shining waves from before. A wry smile twists his lips.

"You came," she states. Her heart thunders through her body. She sits in the chair across from him to steady herself.

"You did not think I would?" His expression shifts to one of genuine puzzlement.

"I didn't know what to think. We barely even met."

"You're my soulmate, _Hermione,"_ her name on his tongue sends shivers running down her spine and through her arms to her fingertips. He watches her expression with rapt interest.

"How did you-"

"Your friend Harry said it. It's a beautiful name. Greek, isn't it?"

"Yes, after the daughter of Helen of Troy and the King of Sparta." She bites her lip. He tracks the movement, gaze fixed on her mouth.

" _Hermione,"_ he whispers.

A beat passes with neither saying anything, each simply staring at the other, drinking them in.

"I didn't tell Harry all the details, but I found the Ancient Babylonian method. I know what you had to do to get here."

"It was worth it," Tom immediately says.

"You carved out your heart. How did you even do that?"

"Abraxas Malfoy did that bit."

"He what! You're telling me that the current headmaster of Hogwarts carved out your heart for you?" Hermione incredulously asks, eyebrows disappearing into her bangs. She'd thought the Malfoy patriarch of this timeline had seemed alright.

"Abraxas is headmaster? He did his job much better than I could have predicted, then. And I assume he's liberated the place of those wretched Mudbloods?"

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?" Seeing her outrage, Tom frowns.

"Don't tell me you sympathize with that scum. They aren't worthy of magic and it shows. We are so much better than them, Hermione." He has a sinking suspicion this was not the right thing to say.

" _We,"_ she begins, shoulders shaking with rage, "are not better than anyone! And you- _you_ certainly aren't! You obviously knew I was from the future, well this isn't my original future. I know what you would have become if you had stayed. I know what you've already done. Where I came from you were a monster, a vile and disgusting creature! I thought maybe this would have changed you, but I see now I was mistaken."

"Why would this change anything?" he asks, tone sharp as the blade that pierced his heart.

Hermione stands, hands fisted in her sweater to keep her from punching him outright. Her breaths come in short bursts. She whirls on her heel, stalking back to the door.

Without turning to look back, she answers, venom dripping from every syllable, "Because _I_ am a muggleborn!"

Tom's already pale face turns ashen.

"No! No, you can't possibly be-"

The door slams shut behind her with a ring of finality.

* * *

A Mudblood. She was a Mudblood. _His_ soulmate was a fucking Mudblood. He'd come all this way for an inferior, for a thief of magic.

It was perhaps the worst revelation he could have received, second only to, "I'm pregnant with someone else's baby." Even with that it was a close call. At least then he could have just killed the father and been done with it, but no. No, now he had to figure out if she was worth making an exception for.

He'd been willing to make exceptions before for truly powerful witches and wizards of unfortunate blood status, but he'd never found any. Over time he'd given up looking for them, convinced they didn't even exist.

But he'd felt her power rolling off her when she came in, and he remembers it from when she came to him in the past.

She's special.

Fate matched them, and it would not have put him with someone weak or unworthy.

He's in the middle of formulating a way to figure out if she's worth his time when the door flies open. The knob bounces off the wall with a crack, leaving a dent in the plaster.

"What did you say to her?" shouts a furious redheaded boy, storming into the room. And his head is completely red. Not just his hair but his face, too, and all the way down to the collar of the green sweater he wears.

"And who might you be?"

Ignoring the question completely, the boy yells, "You bloody bastard! Hermione's been upset for over three hours now," Tom tenses, barely retraining the urge to flinch, "and we know it's because of you. She won't tell us what you did, but I intend to find out!"

"So she doesn't know you're here?"

"What do you care?" the redhead sneers. "Clearly she doesn't mean anything to you or else you wouldn't have made her so upset. I can't even tell if she's angry or sad, that's how bad it is." Tom stares back, face etched in stone.

"Are you quite finished?"

The other boy slams his hand down on the chair. "No, dammit, tell me what you said!"

"I really don't see how it's any of your business," Tom replies irritably.

"Because she's my friend and if I don't know what she's upset about then I don't know how to comfort her!" Tom snorts, _pathetic._

"It's not my problem that you don't know her well enough to be any use to her."

"You watch your fucking mouth or I'll-"

" _Ronald Weasley!"_ Both boys turn to look at the door as a livid Hermione stomps her way in. Her magic swirls around her, glowing and pulsing. Mouth drawn down into a frown and brows scrunched together, her furious eyes lock on her ginger friend.

The boy, Ronald, panics, backing as far away from the irate witch as possible. He cowers, hunching his shoulders to appear smaller and making himself into the picture of dutiful fear.

"How dare you come up here after I told you not to! I said I was fine. I said I was handling it! Yet, you chose to ignore me, just barging ahead with your reckless plan!"

He stammers, "I only wanted to help." Hermione steps forward and points an accusatory finger at Ron's chest. Tom watches with amusement.

"I didn't need your help! What I needed was time to think, which you haven't given me. Get out."

"What?" Ron's eyes widen.

"Get. Out," she commands. He flees her wrath, running past Tom without a backward glance.

"And you," she whirls on Tom when Ron's footsteps have faded, "don't think you're getting off so easily. You're the one who started this."

He says nothing, merely watches her face shift as she considers what course of action to take.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

"I am," he stops, wondering if honesty is the best course. He doubts it can make things worse. "I am unsure how to react. Everything I know tells me that you are inferior, and yet you've been picked as my soulmate. My equal. You know where I am from and who I was and was to become. Did you, realistically, expect me to be open minded? I'm conflicted. I traveled all this way for you, because I had to know. I had to meet you and get to know you. And now you tell me that you're from filth? I can't comprehend it."

Hermione counts to ten in her head, willing herself to discuss this calmly. "That's where your problem lies, you think muggles are filth. They aren't. They're imaginative and clever and they invent new things all the time. They do more without magic than most wizards do with it."

"I've never seen any evidence of that. A wizard would easily defeat a muggle in a fight. If there was ever an actual war, we would win easily."

"What year did you leave from? 1944 right?" her tone reflects a certain level of smugness that he doesn't appreciate.

"That's correct," he answers.

"Then you wouldn't know that muggles developed a bomb capable of destroying an entire major city in one blast, would you?" Her eyes glitter with a self-satisfied light.

He'd never heard of such a thing. More importantly, he'd never heard of a spell capable of such damage. If she was telling the truth, that meant that an entire army of wizards would be taken out in one fell swoop and they wouldn't even be able to retaliate in like manner.

"I-"

"Exactly! And you wouldn't know that Muggles have eradicated a good portion of the diseases they used to consider fatal. Wizards have only managed to figure a small portion of theirs. Plus, Muggles can even weaponize diseases.

"And they've created something called 'the Internet' and it's a resource capable of holding all of human knowledge," she finishes with a nod.

"I'm not going to simply take your word for all these grand claims, nor am I going to dismiss the notion that Muggles are inferior so easily. They don't have magic. They may be smart but they aren't capable of harnessing true power."

Hermione snorts, then changes the subject without warning. "You're free to go." He can't keep the surprise from his face. "We can't continue to hold you here since the ritual you used didn't hurt the space-time continuum, and, sadly, it's not illegal to be racist."

"I have nowhere to go," he tries to play on her sympathy.

"I was afraid you'd say that. The Weasleys have offered to let you spend the rest of winter break with them. Personally, I advised inflicting you on the Malfoys, but Mrs. Weasley insisted. Not that she would have if she knew who you are. Of course, you don't have to accept."

"No, I'll stay with them," Tom says, smiling at her unconcealed annoyance. "That sounds lovely."

* * *

Hermione feels almost afraid of how well he's managed to handle himself among Ron's family. Mrs. Weasley took to him the moment she laid eyes on him, and he'd won over Arthur with a ten minute discussion on the merits of the galleon. Percy had been awestruck at Tom's apparent wellspring of knowledge, and the twins with his inability to be pranked. Bill and Charlie mostly ignored him at first, but she caught the three of them in an avid discussion of the theory of curses and their effects on magical fauna.

Still, the day isn't over yet and he still has plenty of time to say something damning.

Harry glances over at her every few minutes to check that she's okay, and her smile gets shakier with each time. A sickness creeps up her throat.

"They're quite nice," Tom says to her after dinner, having cornered her on her way up to her and Ginny's shared room.

"Yes," she agrees, tired eyes staring past him.

"I won't do anything to them, you know," he moves to the side in an attempt to make eye contact. Not at all a suspicious comment to make.

"I didn't think you would. There would be nothing for you to gain from it." Hermione tries to move past him but he blocks the stairs with his arm.

"You think so little of me and my motivations?" he might sound hurt. She's too exhausted to care.

"You haven't given me a reason to think better of you."

"I came all this way for you," he states, face and tone blank again.

"No, you didn't. You came for the pure blooded girl you'd built in your head to be me. Once you heard my heritage, you were outraged, as though it changed how you viewed me. And honestly I'm not totally convinced that you came here for me at all, there are plenty of other reasons for wanting to come to the future."

"I don't hold your blood against you, I know that we would not be soulmates were you anything less than a very powerful witch." How confidently he just told her that he still plans on being racist (with the exception of her) as though she should be happy with it. She notices that he doesn't comment on the second part of what she said.

She can't help but laugh at the absurdity. "Wrong answer. Goodnight, Riddle." She ducks under his arm and runs up the stairs.

"Last name basis?" he calls after her.

"We were never on first!" she yells back.

* * *

His eyes land on her as soon as she comes back down the stairs, looking much as though she's washed her face and taken a Pepper-Up potion.

In truth, he still has no clue what to make of it all. When she'd brushed him off on the stairs he'd been surprised, to say the least. He was her soulmate, and he'd made an effort to give her what she wanted. Yet she hadn't seemed remotely as pleased as he'd expected she'd be.

She laughs at something one of the identical twins says and _something_ clenches in his chest. It's not jealousy, that he'd recognize. It's a twinge in his sternum that spreads coldness through his blood. It's hurt, raw and unwarranted.

Everyone exchanges gifts, sitting around the fireplace, and Tom watches as Hermione gasps at something the redheaded girl got her. She holds it up, a thick book of which he can't make out the title. She hugs the other girl and whispers something in her ear. They giggle to themselves.

He's never felt more out of place. Even in the orphanage he had the sense that he was in charge. He had his place.

Here he's a stranger, an out-of-time invader.

"Tom, dear, there's a present for you, too," Mrs. Weasley hands him a green and silver wrapped gift with an attached card. He reaches out and takes it. Mrs. Weasley smiles at him.

As soon as she's moved on to the next person he tears into the card.

 _Open this gift when you're alone._

There's no signature, but it feels like- he meets Hermione's eyes from across the room. She turns away. Why, he wonders, would she get him something?

The rest of the evening he struggles to be patient. Several of his smiles come across more strained than they normally would, and his responses shorten. At the concerned elbow touch he receives from Mrs. Weasley after he'd been staring daggers at the fire for five minutes straight, he finally decides to call it a night.

He stands outside her door, thinking that he should at least end the night on a good note. At his knock, he hears the scrambling of footsteps and what sounds like the hasty closing of a drawer and then, "Just a second!"

"Hello," he says as soon as the door opens, revealing a disheveled Hermione.

"Oh, it's you," her face shuts down. Her dull tone and cold words hit him hard.

"Look, I wanted to say thank you." He waits for her to ask him what he's talking about, but she doesn't. "Thank you for allowing me to stay here. I know that you could have insisted I go elsewhere, or even turned me in to the Ministry, but I'm grateful you didn't."

She blinks and looks down at her sock-clad feet. She appears to wrestle with herself, before coming to a decision. Her eyes meet his with determination, and she smiles. No, she lights up the evening.

"You're welcome." Her fingers drum against the door. "Goodnight, Tom Riddle," she says softly.

The lock clicks into place.

He presses his lips together. His own room that he shares with Ron and Harry smells of sweat, broom wax, and the tiniest hint of body odour. Delightful. Ron has already passed out on his bed when Tom enters. Harry stands to meet him, his cot creaking in joy at the weight being lifted. He'd been waiting for him.

"Potter," Tom greets, walking to the dresser to grab the small bag of toiletries he'd been given. He fishes out the toothpaste and toothbrush and turns to exit.

"Wait, I need to talk to you." Ron stirs and Harry lowers his voice. "It's important."

Tom shifts around to look back at the bespectacled boy, tapping his foot to show his impatience. "Go ahead."

"I watched you today. I watched how you treated the Weasleys. I saw how you looked at Hermione. You seem like you have the potential to be an alright bloke." Harry fidgets with his hands. "Hermione hasn't said much about who you were in her original timeline but I do know that that's not the road you should go down this time."

"Inspiring, truly," Tom drawls. He turns to go again.

"Don't hurt her." His hand closes around the doorknob. "I know you're her soulmate or some other shit, but don't hurt her. If you do I will make sure you're put in Azkaban for life." The threat rings through the air. Tom opens the door and steps out.

In the bathroom, he locks the door, pulls the present out of his pocket, and undoes the shrinking charm he placed on it. The pretty wrapping falls to the ground in strips.

He opens the simple cardboard box, and at first is dismayed by what looks to be just pieces of paper. On closer inspection, he sees that they are letters, each addressed to him. His heart jumps.

* * *

 _Dear Tom,_

 _It's been three weeks since I went to the past and met you. I've returned now to a future different from the one I knew. Everything feels strange and oddly warped, yet still the same._

 _I don't know if I will ever see you again. I looked up what happened to you, and as it turned out, you disappeared over the winter break of your seventh year. It's not clear what happened to you._

 _To be honest, I find it disconcerting that someone like you could be my soulmate. It seems like the least likely event possible. Where I'm from, you became a maniacal tyrant intent on destroying everyone of my kind. (Rather hypocritical from a half-blood wouldn't you say?) I fought against you. I was going to help destroy you._

 _Yet, I can't think that the boy I met was irredeemable. I can't. You seemed so human and normal. You felt things, I know it._

 _But even then, I cannot be sure. You fooled everyone the first time, and it would be unwise to think that it was anything but an act._

 _Your soulmate,_

 _Hermione_

* * *

 _Dear Tom,_

 _It's now been two months since I saw you. I've started to gain memories from this Hermione's life. I don't like it. I feel like one day I'm going to wake up and not remember my original timeline at all. Even though there's no way to get it back, I feel like if I forget it then it won't have meant anything._

 _I've done some research and it looks like you might have decided to time travel to the future. Sometimes I hope that it's true, and others I beg whatever deity there may be that it's not. I can't decide if I want to see you again._

 _In my heart, you're the boy from the past, but in my head I know that you're the monster from my future. Is it silly to hope that you're capable of change? To think that you might one day look on Muggleborns and Muggles without contempt? Maybe. Perhaps you'll never truly be a member of the Light. But I don't think that not being a member of the Light and being a member of the Dark are the same. There's a grey area, and if I see you again I hope you find it._

 _Your soulmate,_

 _Hermione_

* * *

 _Dear Tom,_

 _It's been eight months._

 _I don't know what to say. I've adjusted to life here as well as I think I'll ever be able to. So many things have changed because of you. There are people alive who were dead and there are people dead who would have been alive. Some inventions that I remember are nowhere to be found, but there are new products here, too. Biggest of all are the policies on Muggleborns. I was pleasantly surprised to find out that this future is much less racist._

 _You really had an effect on the future, and were it not so horrific in its scope, it would be fascinating to make note of all the things that your vanishing has altered._

 _I wonder, if you come to the future, will you waste your potential as you did before? You could have been so powerful and really made a difference, but you squandered it in favour of your deluded ambitions which proved to be your downfall. I've had time to think, and if you were to stand for what's right, I would proudly stand by your side._

 _Abraxas Malfoy, who I know was one of your devoted followers, managed to turn his life around after you left. He became one of, and still is, the biggest advocated for Muggleborn equality. The magical community is stronger than ever, and magic itself is stronger than ever, now that it isn't hindered by inbreeding. Perhaps this, in and of itself, would be an incentive to change your views on Muggleborns, because your archaic prejudices would certainly place you in the unpopular minority here._

 _I don't doubt that you'd find a place here._

 _I'd like to get to know you and figure out all this soulmate stuff. Maybe one day I'll get the chance._

 _Your soulmate,_

 _Hermione_

* * *

Saturday, the day after Christmas, was almost conspicuously quiet. The energy present the day before dove to a lethargic level. Tom had only said one thing to her the entire day, and it was to ask her to pass the salt at breakfast.

When the time came for everyone to leave, Molly cried and gave bone-crushing hugs while her family looked on amusedly.

"Give my love to James and Lily, won't you dear?" she asked of Harry.

"Of course I will, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you again for letting me spend Christmas with you."

That had been another thing that Hermione'd had to get used to. James and Lily Potter were alive. Not only that, but they were every bit as loving as she'd always thought they would be. This Harry had grown up adored and happy, as he'd always deserved.

When Harry had taken her to his house she'd been in wonder. The atmosphere was warm and joyous and filled with life. James and Lily made her feel at home, and it had been the first time since coming to this future that she'd felt a sense of belonging.

"Oh, we're always glad to have you," Mrs. Weasley dotes on Harry.

He leaves via the Floo, disappearing into the swirl of green flames.

"Hermione, dear, you'll give our love to your parents as well won't you?" Molly asks her.

"Yes, I definitely will," Hermione smiles.

"Tom!" Mrs. Weasley calls. "Tom it's time to leave! Don't make Hermione wait for you," she chides him and he hurries into the room, clutching a small bag. The blood drains from Hermione's face.

"He's not-"

"Your parents will be so proud that you've found such a chivalrous young man," the Weasley matriarch goes on. There's been a mistake, but how can she ask Mrs. Weasley to keep such a hazard with her for the rest of break?

"Yes, they will," she makes sure to look directly into Tom's dark eyes as she says it. _He probably planned this somehow,_ she thinks. "Come on, Tom." His eyebrows rise in surprise. He must not have expected her to go along with it.

She sticks out her arm for him to grab and he latches on. "Goodbye, everyone, I had a wonderful Christmas!"

"Goodbye, thank you for your generosity," Tom adds.

"Bye, Tom! Bye, Hermione!" the Weasleys chorus.

The dizzying sensation of Apparition whooshes over them as Hermione takes them to the living room of her house. She lets go of Tom as soon as they arrive, holding her hand up to her aching forehead.

"Mum, Dad, I'm home!"

"Hello sweetheart, I'll be out in a minute, I'm helping your father make dinner."

A minute later a short, pleasantly plump woman emerges from the kitchen. Her wild brown curls frame her face and she beams at her daughter. "It's so good to see you! How was- oh! Who is this?" she gestures at Tom.

Before Hermione can reply, Tom extends a hand, "I'm Tom Riddle, Hermione's friend. I didn't have anywhere to go after Christmas and she graciously offered your home. I hope I'm not intruding." The way he says it makes her sound so noble.

"It's no trouble at all, we're happy to have you!" she reassures him, taking his hand. "I'm Mrs. Granger."

"Pleased to meet you."

"Mum, can I speak to Tom privately for a moment?" Hermione cuts in. Her face gives away nothing but calm.

"Yes, of course, I'll be in the kitchen. Don't take too long, your father wants to see you."

As her mother retreats, Hermione glances up at Tom through her lashes. "Thank you for saying that, you didn't have to cover for me."

"I was happy to do it."

"Listen, Riddle, I love my parents, so it would be nice if you could at least make an effort to get to know them." She sighs.

"Okay," he agrees. She smiles like she doesn't believe him.

* * *

It is three days later that they find themselves sitting in the family room at one in the morning. Hermione sits on the couch flipping through the channels of the tele to find something to watch. She pauses briefly on a documentary about ducks, but moves on when the narrator jokingly refers to the show as a 'duckumentary.'

Tom laughs at this, warm and genuine, and it's so shocking that she turns to stare at him. His head is thrown back, mouth stretched wide as he shakes with mirth.

"That wasn't even that funny," Hermione says in wonder when his laughter has died down.

"It was funnier than anything I've heard in a long time." She averts her eyes back to the screen when he looks at her.

They sit watching infomercials for twenty minutes before he breaks the silence again.

"I like them," Hermione turns to him in confusion, glancing between him and the advertisement for an improved thigh master. He glares. "Not that, I meant your parents. They're nice."

A guarded expression takes shape on her face. "I'm glad you think so."

"I've been trying, you know. I still can't say that I see them completely as equals, but I wouldn't necessarily say they're inferior, either." She nods, still looking at the tele and not him. "I'm trying," he repeats.

She doesn't move when he leaves, and it is only an hour later when his seat is cold and she remembers him laughing at the word 'duckumentary' that she turns to survey his spot.

"I'm trying," he had said.

It's more than she'd hoped for.

* * *

New Year's Eve. His birthday. He's officially eighteen.

She buys him a book on history, and wraps it in white, for new beginnings. Her parents bake him a cake, topped with eighteen candles of all different shapes and sizes. It's not much but he seems to appreciate it all the same.

Hours and hours later, when the day is almost over, they watch the special on the New Year. The volume is set low, giving a surreal background noise quality to the excited yells of the featured people.

"I've thought about what you said the other night," she says. He raises an eyebrow. They've talked every night since that first conversation they had watching the tele. "About trying.

"I want you to know that I believe you. I don't know how to put it into words, but something in me tells me that you're being truthful. Normally, I'm highly logical and don't rely on feelings, but even logic tells me that you wouldn't come all this way and then just throw it all away without first trying to adjust.

"I don't expect you to change your ways immediately, or even soon, but just the fact that you're making the effort is tremendous.

"I think we could be friends or something or-"

"Hermione," Tom interrupts. "Hermione, I understand." He looks into her soft brown eyes.

Together, they watch the countdown to midnight.

"Happy New Year!" shouts the man on the tele.

Hermione reaches out and takes Tom's hand. He squeezes her fingers.

It's the start of something, and it's tentative and hesitant, with both sides having to give ground, but it's beautiful. Peace begins at the end of war, and they've both fought theirs.

It will be hard. It will take time, and effort, and some days it won't seem worth it.

But it will be.

It will be, because in the end they'll have each other.

* * *

 _fin._


End file.
